


Dreaming Reality

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Dreams can be more painful than reality, especially if the dreams become reality. When reality is painful and dreams even more so, which one becomes the escape?
Kudos: 13





	Dreaming Reality

Watson lay on the settee with his eyes closed, waiting. It had been a long, wet day, and he was grateful to relax for a while. Too tired to read, he normally would have been in bed by this time of the evening, but Holmes had gone out hours ago, and he refused to seek his bed until he at least knew Holmes had returned safely. The docks this time of night were a dangerous place, especially with the storm raging outside, and Watson wished he had been able to go along. Unfortunately, a patient’s urgent call for help had taken him out of the flat just before Holmes had left.

The mantle clock ticked the minutes away as Watson slipped into a light doze. Holmes had said he would be home by eleven. He needn’t worry yet.

The door below slammed open then closed as the clock struck ten, and Watson relaxed even more, a faint grin lighting his face. Only Holmes could slam the door so, and his quick, excited steps up the seventeen stairs to the sitting room told of his success before he even opened the door.

“You caught him, then?” Watson asked without opening his eyes.

“No thanks to that bumbling constable,” Holmes grumbled in reply. “I swear, Watson, it’s like—” He broke off as he entered the sitting room to find Watson still stretched out on the settee with his eyes closed instead of in his armchair. “Alright, Watson?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.” Watson cracked a tired eye open to see the barest flicker of concern in Holmes’ gaze. “I’m just tired.” A reassuring grin split his face before he closed his eyes again. “So you found McClain at The Hopper?” he steered the topic back to Holmes’ case, knowing Holmes would want to talk about it. Even as tired as he was, Watson wanted to hear about it.

“Yes.” Holmes’ answer came slowly, probably studying his friend, though Watson didn’t bother opening his eyes to confirm that. “We caught him and his fence in the middle of a deal,” he continued after a long moment. “Nearly lost them when a constable gave us away, but McClain is behind bars now. Trial will be in a few days, according to Lestrade.”

While speaking, Holmes had been moving about the room, exchanging his sodden jacket for his dressing gown and filling his pipe. He sat now in his armchair and studied Watson.

“You volunteered at Charing Cross after your rounds,” he finally announced, “and had at least three urgent patients come by after you left the hospital. Why did you walk instead of taking a cab in this dreadful weather?” The added _especially with how you were limping this morning_ , went unspoken, hanging in the air with an element of concern.

An exhausted version of Watson’s normal amused grin flitted across his face, gratifying Holmes that he could still surprise his biographer after all these years. “I did,” was Watson’s answer, “but there was a family. A young mother and two little ones…” His voice trailed off, but he had said enough. Generous to a fault, was Holmes’ Boswell, even to his own detriment.

The detective had no answer, puffing slowly on his pipe as he gazed into the fire, and the companionable silence filled the flat.

Watson suddenly stirred, breaking Holmes out of his thoughts. “What’s on your mind?” Holmes asked when he saw Watson checking to see if he was still there.

“It’s nothing,” was the quick answer. Too quick.

“Come, now. I’ve told you before that prevaricating does not become you.”

“Nothing, really. It’s just…” he trailed off.

“Just what?” Holmes asked when it became apparent Watson wasn’t going to continue.

“If I didn’t know better,” came the reluctant answer, “I could almost believe you were really here.”

“Of course, I’m here, Watson.” Holmes’ voice had none of the confusion a statement like this should have engendered, only an atypical gentleness. “Where else would I be?”

Watson was quiet for a long moment. “I guess I’ve just been so lonely,” he finally said, and frowned. Now, why had he said that? Even if he _had_ been, he would never admit such a thing!

Holmes’ eyes soften a touch, unnoticed by Watson, but he didn’t comment on the uncharacteristic statement. In fact, his presence seemed to be fading somehow.

Some of the contented lethargy overtaking Watson quickly faded as that thought registered. “No, don’t go!”

“You’re waking, my dear chap.”

Watson felt himself lifting, as if out of a deep well, and though he tried to fight it, to sink back down into that wonderful dream, he opened his eyes. An empty consulting room in an empty house greeted him. He had fallen asleep at his desk again, and the contentedness of the dream faded as reality hit. It had been years since the McClain case, since the last week before his marriage, but the dream had seemed so _real_.

He put his head in his hands as the wave of grief crashed over him again. First Holmes, at the bottom of those accursed falls, then Mary…

He saw no shame in allowing the tears to fall when there was no one around to see them. His best friend, then his wife and child, gone. Mary had only told him about their child a few weeks before the fever had taken her. Had it really been less than three weeks before? It seemed like yesterday. It seemed like forever.

“Oh, Watson.”

He barely registered the voice. It couldn’t be there anyway. It never would be again. “Holmes. Mary. Oh, Mary.” The words were muffled through the sobs he made no attempt to stifle wracking his too-thin frame.

“Watson. Watson.”

His tears flowed harder as he heard his friend’s voice. It was a cruel trick of the mind to hear an impossible voice in the midst of grief, but he was used to it by now. It was not the first time, after all, that memories had bled into reality. He would enjoy hearing them again, if only it didn’t hurt so much.

“Watson!”

The empty consulting room disappeared in a moment as he opened his eyes. Blinking, he forced his tear-wet eyes to focus on a bleary Holmes standing over his bed. Something inside him broke, and his face crumpled in grief. He was dreaming—again. How else could he be seeing his long-dead friend standing over his bed in Baker Street? He closed his eyes. Better to see nothing than see a lie, another false hope that faded with the morning light. Maybe the dream would change again in another moment.

“Watson, you need to wake up.” Holmes’ voice again, but Watson lacked the energy to keep his eyes open, to look at one who had been gone for so long. He couldn’t look, not when the grief was so fresh, but he didn’t want to wake up either, to go back to that cold, empty house. Why couldn’t he slip back to that first dream, where all was right?

“Wake up, my dear fellow. It was a dream.”

Yes. Master of the obvious, Watson thought, the strangely salty tears still flowing. Of course it was a dream. It’s always a dream. I can’t escape the lonely reality because I have to dream it, too.

“Watson?”

A hand landed on his shoulder, and his eyes flew open. His dreams always had sight and sound, but never touch. How could he have a hand on his shoulder?

“Watson, you need to wake up,” he heard again, but this time it was accompanied by a hand gently squeezing his good shoulder.

He sat bolt upright, nearly knocking heads with Holmes, who had been leaning over his bed. His bed. He was in his room in Baker Street. Memory came flooding back as he gripped the hand that remained on his shoulder. The inquest, Camden House, _Holmes_.

Gripping the arm, his eyes followed it up to where Holmes was leaning over him.

“Watson? Are you awake this time?”

Watson stared a moment, silently. Was he awake? He felt awake, but he had felt awake the last two times. Was he really in Baker Street, with Holmes impossibly back from the dead, or would he wake up again in a moment, back in that empty house in Kensington?

Worry started to creep into Holmes’ eyes, forcing Watson to find his voice.

“I don’t know.” His voice was quiet, raspy with recent tears, and woefully uncertain.

Amusement replaced some of the worry. “You don’t know?” Holmes moved to perch himself on the edge of Watson’s bed, and Watson’s gaze followed him, his hand still gripping Holmes’.

Holmes’ own gaze sharpened, noting the grip Watson had on his hand, the uncertainty, the wary hope, and he could have kicked himself. This was his fault. He had caused this.

“I’m here, Watson. This isn’t a dream.” A hope lit his friend’s eyes, showing Holmes just how many times something like this had happened, showing how many times Watson had woken to find cold reality. The spark of life in his closest friend had been beaten mercilessly, first by Holmes’ own actions, then by the loss of his wife and child.

Watson’s grip tightened as the wariness in his gaze faded. “Holmes?”

“Come, Watson. Join me downstairs?” he asked, watching his friend’s face.

Watson was moving before he had consciously decided to do so, always ready to follow wherever Holmes led. Even if this was another dream, he reasoned, maybe he would be able to get back that contentedness from the first dream before he woke for real.

Recognizing his friend’s dazed senses, the detective let Watson lean on his arm as they descended to the sitting room, where a fire was already burning brightly. He frowned worriedly when the token protest at the aid never formed. His friend was following without conscious thought, still lost in the daze of his dreams.

A few minutes saw them settled in the sitting room, with Watson seated on the settee and Holmes in his armchair opposite. The mantle clock struck one.

Watson put his face in his hands, still not entirely sure what was dream and what was real, and not quite ready to look at the friend he hadn’t seen in three long years in his old chair.

Several minutes passed in silence as Holmes waited for his friend to look at him, his worry increasing with every minute that Watson’s face remained hidden. Finally, when it became painfully clear his friend had no intention of looking up, of talking, Holmes stood to grab his violin. If Watson was unwilling to talk now, sleep would be best. One of the first things Holmes had noticed on his return the day before had been how haggard his friend looked, how exhausted. His friend had been having trouble sleeping, and music had always helped in the past.

The gentle strains of Mendelssohn’s _Lieder_ filled the sitting room, and Watson felt a sad smile escape behind his hands. How he missed hearing his friend play! Going to concerts simply wasn’t the same, as he was too accustomed to Holmes wandering about the piece to include his own compositions.

The music continued, and he found himself leaning back into the settee, finding some of that contented feeling he had lost after the last dream. He didn’t want this dream to end, but it was so nice to hear his friend’s music just one more time…

He was peacefully asleep within a few minutes, but Holmes continued playing softly for much of the early morning. The new day would show his friend the truth of the matter, but for now, he needed rest.

It was some hours later that Watson finally stirred again, this time out of a dreamless sleep. He found himself in a bed not his own, but it was comfortable enough. He sighed, stretching and enjoying a slow awakening such that he hadn’t experienced in some time. Blinking his eyes open, he froze, looking around. He was still in the sitting room, stretched out on the settee under an afghan. Could it be?

Twisting around fast enough to make himself dizzy, he found Holmes fast asleep in his armchair in front of a slowly dying fire, his violin resting against the floor and his slack hand. A large smile split his face as he settled back down, content to simply observe the London dawn. Maybe not all of last night had been a dream, after all. Maybe reality could be better than dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated on all my stories :D


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